For some reason, emailing Red all day made Chloe alarmingly upbeat. Of course, the universe put a stop to that cheer the moment she went to bed by cursing her with a numb right foot that kept her awake all night.
Some people (like singularly unhelpful and clearly underqualified physical therapists, unsympathetic GPs, and that supremely irritating second cousin who ate all the stuffing at Christmas) assumed that a lack of feeling in certain body parts shouldn’t affect sleep at all. Her insomnia in such situations, they said, was something she could easily overcome. Chloe liked to remind those people that the human brain tended to keep track of all body parts, and was prone to panic when one of those parts went offline. Actually, what Chloe liked to do was imagine hitting those people with a brick. But she restrained herself to scathing explanations and used her brick-hitting fantasies to occupy her when sleep refused to come.
After hours of numb-footed hell, she dragged herself up to feed Smudge, who had spent the night beside her offering moral support. If she was going to get any work done today, she needed to feed herself, too. She should brew green tea for the antioxidants and make a healthy breakfast rich in whole grains for slow-release energy. However, since that sounded extremely difficult and her body ached as if she’d been stomped on by a god, she improvised by eating handfuls of Coco Pops straight from the box and gulping apple juice from the carton.
Thus fortified, and wrapped up in her favorite plush, gray onesie, she settled on the sofa and opened her laptop. Sitting at her desk wasn’t happening today, no matter how much fine detail her monitors allowed. In the end, though, Chloe’s choice of computer didn’t matter—because, after 0.5 seconds of staring at a pixelated screen, she developed a sudden headache. Or perhaps someone had shot her. It felt roughly the same.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I will not be defeated.”
Smudge miaowed supportively.
She opened her eyes and got to work.
*
Hours later, a knock came at the door. Chloe sat bolt upright and realized three things in quick succession:
She had fallen asleep. Oops.
The flat had warmed up considerably since this morning, because she was now far too hot in her onesie.
It was after five o’clock and Redford Morgan was here.
“Fudge,” she muttered darkly, swiping the drool off her cheek. Judging by the fine lines and indents under her fingers, she had a mess of pillow creases on her face, too. Wonderful.
She glowered at Smudge, who was stretched out across her PlayStation with outrageous disregard for the house rules. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
He waved his tale with open belligerence.
“Oh, you are useless. I bet you wouldn’t nudge me awake during a fire. Get off there, would you?”
He casually kicked out his back paw, knocking her copy of Overwatch off the TV cabinet.
“I swear,” she huffed, rising to her feet and adjusting the Velcro straps of her wrist supports. “I’ve no idea what to do about your attitude. This is your last warning.”
She tried to sound stern, but as she hurried to answer the door, she heard mocking kitty laughter echoing behind her.
Still, she couldn’t worry about feline insubordination right now. She was too busy worrying about other things, like how utterly unprepared she was for Redford’s arrival. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go. She’d had a plan—one that involved her looking calm and put together, not half asleep in a onesie designed to make her resemble a giant lemur. She hovered awkwardly by her own front door, smoothing flustered hands over her hair, wondering if her and Red’s increasingly familiar emails yesterday meant they were now proper friends, or if she’d simply read too much into things.
Well, she was about to find out.
Her heart pounding thickly at the back of her throat, Chloe opened the door. And there he was, her exact opposite: cool, calm, hands in his pockets, a slow, easy smile spreading over his face. Her stomach swooped along the roller coaster curve of his mouth, the defined cupid’s bow a pulse-racing drop. She ordered her lungs to continue breathing normally, but it was too late; they’d already decided to gulp down air like it was going out of style.
“Hey,” Red said.
“Hmm,” she replied, because coherent speech was for other people. She looked away from his disturbing smile and found herself confronted, instead, by his eyes: warm, pale green, like sun-baked grass, with fine lines at the corners that might as well be a smile in themselves. Her cheeks flushed hot. She abandoned his face entirely, in favor of his body. He was wearing a gray T-shirt that clung slightly to his broad chest, and black jeans that hinted at his heavy thighs. She could just lick him. South of the belt.
“Chloe,” he said.
She looked up sharply.
He arched an eyebrow, cocking his head at her until his hair slid over his shoulders like silk. Had she told him, yesterday, during those funny, giddy, friendly emails, that he had lovely hair? Divine would’ve been more accurate.
“You okay?” he asked.
Was . . . she . . . okay . . . ? No. He was disgracefully, disgustingly handsome, and her head still ached, she was still exhausted, and her numb foot was tingling painfully back to life. But that was really no excuse for gaping at him with her tongue hanging out, so she pulled herself firmly together.
“I’m fine. Just tired. Sorry.” She stepped back to let him in, running her thumbs over the line where her wrist supports ended and her skin began. Whatever’s gotten into you, Chloe Sophia Brown, exorcise it before you make a fool of yourself.
He gave her a sympathetic, head-to-toe glance that reminded her—as though she could forget—of how terribly pathetic she must look. “Were you asleep?”
“Ah, yes,” she admitted, trying for an airy laugh. It came out a bit too strained, but she forged on. “Now we’ve both caught each other napping, haven’t we?”
She’d thought that joke would make things less awkward, but he flushed abruptly, brilliantly red. Scarlet heat colonized his whole face from the throat up.
“Yeah,” he said after a strange little pause. “Napping.” He cleared his throat and nodded down the hall. “So, shall we . . . ?”
Right, yes. He was here about the list, and she’d decided last night while lying awake—in between chatting with Smudge and imagining violence against everyone who’d ever wronged her—that she would treat said list as a professional endeavor. Of course, her lack of preparation today put them off to a bumpy start, but as she led Red to the living room, she felt confident she could put things back on track.
“Nice tail,” he said from behind her.